


Another's Treasure

by DivineMadness



Category: Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2816366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineMadness/pseuds/DivineMadness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lost property. Roll up, roll up and see for yourself. Lost property. None of your found things here. Everything guaranteed properly lost."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another's Treasure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VerySleepy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerySleepy/gifts).



A new life and a new beginning, Richard decided, was as good of an excuse as any to take his time with exploring the Floating Market. He knew that the novelty of it all would wear off in time, but for now, it was still unfamiliar, brimming with excitements and wonders, and held just enough intrigue that Richard found himself legitimately curious about the things around him instead of cautiously wondering if they could somehow be the death of him. It was a nice change of pace. 

He was with Door and the marquis de Carabas, having been delivered to her by him very shortly after his return to London Below. The smile on her face when she saw him again was as bright as it could be, bigger even than that coat of hers and brimming with the love of a true friend. He had missed it, he realized. Even though he hadn’t been separated from her for too long, it had felt like long enough, and he’d really, truly missed it. This. _Her_. And he was certain the marquis cared that he was back as well, no matter how uninterested he acted. He was also sure that the marquis would have stayed with them until the end of the day without the addition of a favor owed, but really, what’s a favor between friends? It was a happy reunion. Richard was enjoying himself, and for the first time in a while, Door was enjoying herself as well. The marquis tried not to look too bored.

Richard heard the familiar cries of vendors and peddlers, shouting and clamoring for the attention of passersby. They all spoke of garbage, rubbish – of lost items and the occasional square of cheese. Someone appeared to specialize in chewed-up pencils recovered from couches. He was losing most of his business to the woman selling freshly baked bread, much to Richard’s relief – at least some things were universal. Between the noise, Richard heard a cry that had stood out to him the first time he was here: dreams for sale – lovely and fresh ones, apparently, along with first-class nightmares. And since unlike the first time, Richard was not in a rush to be done with this place, he decided it was worth a look. 

He supposed he should have expected some sort of container for these dreams and nightmares, but he wasn’t so sure he would have thought to imagine them to be kept in cookie tins and brightly colored thermoses. Part of him wondered if it was a scam after all. The rest of him knew that no, really, this was likely as true as the nose on his face. Curiously, he reached for a red-and-black plaid tin no larger than matchbox—

Door smacked the back of his hand. Richard pulled it to his chest and blinked at her. “What?”

“It’s probably trouble,” she warned, sounding rather convinced.

“No, it’s a dream. They sell trouble at some other place, I’m sure.” 

“Oh, ha ha, funny.” Door rolled her eyes. “You can’t sell trouble.” Inwardly, Richard sighed. Of all things to assume, he really thought he could have been right about that one. “Anyway, dreams are tricky. Think about it. You don’t know where it’s been, let alone where it came from,” she chided him. “Have your own dreams. Don’t buy someone else’s. That’s foolish.” 

“Or an investment,” the marquis added. And when Door gave him a rather sharp and pointed look, he was quick to add, “Or perhaps both.” It seemed to satisfy her well enough. 

Richard had very little choice than to leave the dream in its place for some other fool or investor to consider. Door and the marquis had already moved on. He turned to follow, and then began to move in double time once the old lady in charge shouted something at him that was probably meant to encourage him to come back and haggle. Richard thought it sounded more like an insult. He chose not to dwell on it too much. For all that he swore up and down that he might just be getting the hang of this, there was still plenty of evidence to suggest otherwise. 

Most of the other stalls weren’t peculiar enough to pull his attention, though Richard was momentarily curious about the man who claimed to be selling curiosities and annoyances – buy one, get one free. Honestly, many of the sellers were dealing in the same wares and simply trying to outshine the others. This was closer to the kind of market he was used to, the kind he admittedly barely paid any mind after all. Maybe the familiarity was getting to him, but he already felt his interest waning as his mind wandered away from the attention-grabbing and instead busied itself with what he could have to eat soon. 

Those thoughts derailed when something caught his eye – a fuzzy shock of bright, neon blue just at the edge of his vision. He turned, and there, standing right on the end of a large pile of what was probably refuse fished from a bin behind a corporate building, was a very familiar little shape. 

Richard hummed as he picked it up. “Look at that,” he mused, turning it over in his hands, “Never thought I’d see another troll again.” His fingers brushed over its coarse, matted hair, and he wiggled the thing in the air as he held it out for Door and the marquis to see. 

“It’s kind of cute,” Door said with a smile. The marquis was far less impressed. 

“It is. I had a few of these, before. I think I had one this color.” 

No sooner had the thought of trading for it crossed his mind then the woman in charge latched onto his interest. She was all smiles and pleasantries, up until she saw the troll in Richard’s hand, at which point she was scowls and long-suffering sighs instead. “Ahh, that thing.” She waved a hand dismissively at him. “Take it. I want rid of it and I can’t be rid of it, hey! Any of them! No one wants them. Not practical!” 

“’Any of them’? How many do you have?” Curious, Richard turned back to the pile, as if he expected to see them there. 

He missed the lady’s smile returning, much like a shark catching sight of lost prey. “How many would you like? There’s a discount for bulk, sure.” 

“I thought you said I could take it?” 

“Not without return! That’s theft, that is!” 

The marquis clicked his tongue, made a face of insincere sympathy. “She’s got you there.” 

“Well, I, okay. Let me see them?” 

“This box.” She removed it from somewhere Richard had apparently neglected to pay attention to seconds earlier. Inside, Richard saw a fair number of the brightly colored plastic creatures, ranging from blue to pink to orange and back again. It was at least the beginnings of a nice little collection, and it brought back memories that Richard was apparently not quite ready to let go of. He picked up one with orange hair, passed it between his hands and felt the familiar weight there. Too familiar. “Hold on. Where did these—“

“So many questions! Just one, important – what have you to give?” 

He barely heard her. She wouldn’t answer him anyway, and he halfway expected her to start rambling about suppliers and runners and the like instead, anything to stall for time and get him to buy them instead of digging for a truth he was sure he already knew. These were his. These trolls, each and every last one of them, had come from the drawer in his new office. The orange one had a dent in its left arm, an accident that had involved a slow day at work, pencils, and a rubber band. The green one was smaller than the neon green one, but both were slightly weighted to their left sides, and he’d always wondered if the green had something to do with it. Blue came from the woman in accounting with the red-rimmed glasses. Red was found in the mud. All of them carried a memory, and each memory sat in his heart like an anchor to something he not only drifted away from once, but voluntarily cut himself away from a second time. 

A new life and a new beginning, Richard decided, called for new memories.

“No. On second thought, I think I’ve grown out of them.” And he placed the troll back in the box with the others. He turned to leave, and he wore a smile that suggested freedom at last – reluctant and hesitant as it may be, it was still a long time coming and could only get better from here.


End file.
